


Coming In From the Cold

by Zethsaire



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America The First Avenger, Captain America the Winter Soldier, Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Domestic, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Non-Binary Bucky, Other, Past Torture, Past Violence, Therapy, Trans Male Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:24:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zethsaire/pseuds/Zethsaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Steve struggle to navigate their relationship while also looking for Bucky.  Sam isn't quite sure how to explain 'transgender' to Steve, and Steve mostly just doesn't want to screw up the best thing to happen to him this century.</p>
<p>Bucky never left DC.  He's been living on the street, and now has to decide whether to come in out of the cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grau/gifts).



> Hey all!!
> 
> This fic is very dear to me. It started as a prompt, and grew into this crazy treatise about sexism, gender roles, sex work and transgender characters. This is a Bucky-saves-themself kind of fic, because I don't see a lot of those and I wanted to figure out how it works.
> 
> There is mostly off-camera sex work, but it does get discussed. I'll have an additional warning up on chapter 4 where there's a tiny bit (like 2 sentances) of on camera sex work. It's consensual, but could still be considered non-con since Bucky isn't at the top of their game mentally.
> 
> You'll notice Bucky's pronouns change a lot. This is my attempt to explain how Bucky considers themself scene to scene. Hopefully it makes sense to you. Enjoy!

It was Jeb who convinced him to come in from the cold. Jeb was a middle aged, (graying but still strong under his wrinkles) homeless vet who'd been taking care of the asset as much as the asset will let anyone take care of him. Jeb was the one who told him about shelters where he can get food and a shower and a clean pair of socks without selling himself or stealing the way the asset had until now. Jeb seemed very concerned about the asset selling himself. Kept saying, 'you're so young', and 'you're being careful, right?' He even walked the asset to a Planned Parenthood, sat with him through the tests (the asset had been rigid, and kept his arm tucked into his hoodie pocket the entire time.) Jeb always made sure the asset had condoms when he needed them, even if he tried to get the asset to find another way. The asset would only say, /it's my body,/ and Jeb would always say, /I know, I know./

Jeb knew how to sign. The asset hadn't spoken since he'd pulled his mission – Steve – his mission – out of the water, but his hands still remembered how to speak. Signing was useful for a tactical situation; it was silent, and if the asset was muzzled, cut down on miscommunication. The fact that Jeb was obviously an army vet and the fact that Jeb _spoke_ to him made the asset start to trust him.

“I'm hearing, myself,” he said, “but my daughter isn't. Taught her sign language and learned right along with her. She thinks I live at the VA – well, most of the time I  _do_ live at the VA, but we still get together and talk. I don't want her to know I'm living out here.”

Jeb had a fairly nice camp, as far as things went. He'd set up shop on a rare patch of grass between two intersecting freeways. There was no water access, and it was loud, but it wasn't patrolled by beat cops, civilians and even other homeless people didn't wander in, and it couldn't be seen from the freeway, so Jeb was left alone, which was how he liked it. He had a tent and a pot he kept over a fire, and a cooler he kept things in. He was still roughing it, and he had a half dozen feral cats always prowling about, but Jeb seemed happy enough.

“I don't think I could go back, now. This is all I know.”

The asset didn't know how to tell him it was all he knew, too.

xxx

Technically the asset wasn't homeless. He'd established a variety of safe houses and rooftops with good vantage points and no camera access. He made a decent amount of cash by selling his body a few times a night. He even was able to purchase weapons and a new set of body armor, and rent a room in an old apartment complex where the land lord took cash and asked few questions.

Food presented a problem. Even though the asset had money, he didn't know how to purchase goods. He knew he needed a better civilian disguise, knew he needed to eat, but he struggled with the concepts of laundry and purchases, much less cooking and grooming. So he dug through the trash, and eventually had Jeb teach him the ways of fast food by following him into a McDonald's. The food sat heavily in his stomach, but at least it was something.

“You've got no idea how to take care of yourself, do you.” Jeb said to him one day when the asset was perched on a rooftop above Jeb's usual corner, keeping an eye out. Someone had tried to mug Jeb yesterday. The old man probably would have been fine on his own, but the asset had stepped in anyway. It had felt good to be useful again.

/No./ The asset agreed, signing when Jeb looked up at him.

Jeb sighed, and shifted like he did when his hip was bothering him. It was probably going to rain. Jeb's hip was never wrong. “There's the 801 East Men's Shelter over on 2700 Martin Luther King Jr Ave. They're good people. I know you've got a place to crash, but these people can help you get back on your feet. Teach you how to take care of yourself, show you how to eat right. You're too thin, boy.”

Jeb paused to thank a woman who'd dropped five dollars in his hat. Jeb could get a whole meal out of that. “God bless you.”

/You're Muslim./

“Doesn't mean God can't bless her, does it? Whichever god she worships. Besides, people get twitchy when you say 'Allah.'”

/If this shelter is so great, why don't you go there?/ The asset asked, when she'd left.

“I told you, I'm not ready yet.”

/And I am?/

“Aren't you?”

The asset didn't know.

xxx

The woman at the shelter spoke ASL.

“Jeb, you brought a friend today!”

Jeb grinned and signed, /he doesn't speak, but I told him that wouldn't be a problem./

/No,/ she agreed, signing to the asset, /not at all./

/I hear,/ the asset said, /I just don't talk./

“That's alright. What's your name, sweetie?”

The asset looked at Jeb. Jeb had never asked his name, so the asset hadn't given him one. All the obvious choices – Barnes, James, Bucky – were associated with someone else he didn't know how to be.

/Jem,/ he spelled it out carefully. /Jem Grant./ It was short like Jeb's and he couldn't think of anything else. He wasn't stupid enough to say 'Rogers' but part of him wanted to.

She wrote that down, still smiling. “Nice to meet you! My name is Kara.”

The asset shifted uncomfortably. He probably would have bolted if Jeb hadn't been right there. /I don't have any papers and I. I don't know my social security number./

The asset didn't even know if he had one. _32557038..._ but that' wasn't his social. That was – something else. Something that made him sick to his stomach and made his head ache.

“That's alright honey. Why don't you come in and get something to eat? Can I put this on you?”

It was a sticker that said, 'Hi, my name is Jem,' and she'd written an H in the lower left and ASL in the lower right. The asset nodded. Food sounded good. He was always hungry, now that he realized that was what the gnawing sensation in his stomach meant.

“Nothing too exciting your first time kid. Just come and have a bit to eat. No one's gonna make you go to therapy your first time, though they'll probably invite you to mass.”

/I could go?/

“You Catholic?” Jeb seemed surprised.

/Used to be,/ the asset said, but really wasn't sure.

The food was good, and the people let him eat as much of the thick, rich stew and fresh bread as he wanted, which turned out to be four helpings. It was so good. Probably not the best stew ever made by the way Jeb smiled, but the asset couldn't even remember eating anything so good.

Everyone was very nice. They didn't ask to see his arm, tucked away in his hoodie pocket, no one hurt him or even raised their voices. One woman made sad eyes at him when he flinched away from her, but she didn't say anything, just backed away slightly. They asked him if he wanted a shower or a shave and he shook his head, and responded the same way when he was asked about a doctor. They did let him pick out some new clothes - a few pairs of pants and shirts and a new hoodie. It was black on the front, with bright yellow hood and sleeves. The asset liked it, because it was something he never would have worn before. No one would look for the Winter Soldier in a bright sun yellow hoodie.

They also gave him a care package with a comb, tiny scissors (for his beard, Jeb said,) a razor, some elastic ties, a toothbrush and sensitive toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, and some shaving cream. They also gave him a photocopy of a manual called _'Explore Personal Care'_. It had pictures and diagrams on everything from showering to trimming his beard. The asset wondered if he should feel ashamed at having to be given such a manual, but he was grateful. He knew how to follow instructions.

/Thank you./

He walked Jeb back to his tent, and then went back to his one room apartment. He sat on the floor next to the canned rations, power bars and water he'd amassed, and read the entire manual three times. Then he went into the bathroom and took the first shower he'd had – well, he couldn't remember having taken one before. He must have, logically. But he didn't remember it. The hot water felt very soothing against his skin and he stood under it for a long time. The water started to run cold eventually, and the asset frowned. That wasn't how he was supposed to do this.

So he got out of the shower and stood there, dripping onto the tile because he didn't have towels or a bath mat. He waited a long time, until the water was hot again. Then he got back in and scrubbed his body down with soap. He didn't have a washcloth, so he used his hands, but he was very thorough. He washed his hair with the bottle of shampoo and conditioner as he'd been instructed, and then got out. He dried himself off with his dirty clothes, and then dressed in his new ones. He put the damp, dirty clothes into an empty duffel bag he'd pilfered, and wondered if he could handle doing laundry. He knew how, in theory – it was all in the manual, but the sheer prospect was almost more than he could bear. He decided to face laundry another time – maybe tomorrow. Maybe he could just throw his clothes away and get new ones. But that was wasteful.

He took the tiny grooming scissors from his bag and spent a good portion of the evening trimming his beard until it was even. He didn't want to shave. Too easy to be recognized. Then he combed his hair and pulled it up off his neck with one of the elastics. Having his hair up felt surprisingly good.

Then he brushed his teeth. Like everything else, the asset didn't realize just how foul his mouth had tasted until he brushed his teeth vigorously and took the time to floss between each tooth. He carefully inspected his teeth for decay, but they seemed in perfect condition despite his never remembering having brushed them before. Maybe they were implanted, like the arm.

Then, having run through the entire suggested manual evening routine, he took a long drink of water, used the toilet (he remembered to wash his hands) and curled up in the corner of his room with three guns within his reach, his flesh arm curled around the hilt of his knife.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotta stuff happens in this chapter. There's a big section that talks about gender identity and Sam tries to explain transgender things to Steve. He gets a little uncomfortable at one point, not because of Steve, just because it's a hard thing to explain. Just be cautious if it's likely to trigger you.

Chapter 2

Steve crawled into Sam's bed with a sigh and a groan, too exhausted to do anything but reach a hand out towards Sam's general direction and plant himself face down into the pillow. He heard Sam chuckle, and then Sam's warm weight was pressed against his side, his arm pulled over Sam's waist and Sam's chin on his shoulder.

“Long trip? You were gone almost a week.”

Steve just grunted.

“You know I woulda come with you right?”

“I know. Clint's cover was blown because of me. I wanted to take care of it. Sides, with the amount of fire in the air, wouldn't have been any place for your wings.”

“Yeah, if Stark ever finishes tweaking them,” Sam grumbled.

“Sleep, Sam.”

“You didn't sleep the whole time you were gone, did you. This is why you need me man.”

“Mmm.” Steve was already asleep.

xxx

The asset was losing weight at an alarming pace. He didn't understand. He ate three, well balanced meals a day, which according to the manual should have been sufficient for his needs. He was still hungry, but he was _always_ hungry, so the asset didn't rely on that assessment. And yet, something was wrong, because the asset was visibly losing weight. The workers at the shelter were concerned, and had kept trying to talk to him about eating and nutrition. He tried to explain that he _was_ eating, but since it didn't look like he was, they didn't believe him.

Jeb was the one to bring up doctors. “Look kid, you look awful. Maybe you should go see someone.”

The asset shook his head wildly.

“Someone looking for ya or something?”

/More than one./

Jeb had an all too knowing look in his eye. “They hurt ya?”

The asset nodded, refusing to elaborate.

“Well, alright then. But maybe try eating a little more or something. You're practically wasting away.”

/I'll try./

“You do that.”

So the asset did research. He had retained skills and information gathering and the internet, and had a favorite quiet library where he went to do research things, always making sure to tip the librarian on his way out. He researched ways to gain weight, and metabolism and caloric intake. Apparently being hungry was bad, and while he should still try to eat well, if he was trying to gain weight an excellent place to start would be to eat until he was no longer hungry.

He picked up a blender and protein powder, a variety of fruits and veggies, eggs, and Greek yogurt, along with peanut butter, soy milk and rolled oats. The asset found cooking and shopping to be a mind numbingly terrifying experience, unless he had a recipe and a list, which he treated like a mission report. If he thought of it that way, it was fairly easy. Though everything cost way more than he felt it should, and there were _way_ too many choices. He usually ended up buying the cheapest ones. Everything still tasted better than anything he could remember tasting before.

He started with three shakes a day, on top of his balanced meal plan. That helped; he was less hungry, and he stopped losing weight so drasticly, but was still losing weight. He experimented, and eventually found if he doubled his meals, drank three shakes a day and ate granola bars or some other kind of dense snack whenever he was hungry, he finally, _finally_ started putting on weight. He had no idea how Hydra had kept him functional. Sometimes it felt like all he did was eat. Still, if felt like an accomplishment when his clothes started to fit again. His muscles came back, the hollows under his eyes started to disappear. He actually started to feel - human.

xxx

When Steve woke up, he was alone in the bed and it was three in the afternoon. His healing could handle a lot, but nothing beat a good night's sleep. Especially since he _hadn't_ slept the whole time he'd been gone, using adrenaline to keep himself awake. He wondered if he could talk Sam into a massage later – his muscles were stiff and sore. He also had a half dozen healing wounds that Sam was probably going to fuss over, right before he smacked Steve across the head for being an idiot.

“Brought you breakfast,” Sam said, appearing at the door with a tray of food that made his mouth water. He could, and did, survive on rations when he had to, but nothing could beat Sam's cooking.

“You are a godsend.”

Sam affected surprise, “Thor dropping by later?”

“Hilarious. Gimme.” He made grabby hands for the food, a gesture left over from when he was a much smaller man.

“All in good time,” Sam snickered, putting the tray across Steve's lap and setting down a glass of orange juice and another of almond milk.

“You are the _best._ ” There was a thick stack of pancakes with butter and syrup, a whole plate of bacon, a stack of toast triangles - some with peanut butter, some with nutella and others with jam, a big bowl of fruit, probably an entire carton of eggs scrambled with veggies and cheese, and two of Sam's home made almond scones.

“I try,” Sam grinned, sitting on the bed and watching Steve eat.

“You want some?”

“Nah, I ate already.”

“Oh good,” Steve said, and then proceeded to demolish his food.

“I gotta say, I like watching you eat.”

Steve just raised an eyebrow.

“No seriously man, it's nice to see someone enjoy my food without worrying about calories.”

“Food tastes better now. Though after having to choke down a half pound of raw liver a day, anything tastes good. Not that your food tastes like liver! Um.”

“What'd you have to eat liver for?” Sam asked, genuinely curious instead of offended.

“It was the only treatment for my anemia. Till about the 30's, when I got to drink a concentrated liver extract instead.”

“Well, that sounds fun.”

“Oh yeah. Though I do sort of miss the asthma cigarettes.”

“...weren't those just weed?”

“Weed and nightshade, yeah. Don't tell anyone,” Steve grinned.

“Captain America, proponent of legalizing marijuana and gay marriage.”

“You forgot vaccination, national health care, women's rights, and gun control.”

“Can't forget that.”

Steve set the breakfast dishes on the bedside table and Sam crawled across the bed to him and into Steve's lap. Steve _loved_ having someone in his lap. Before, he might have literally been crushed by anyone, dame or fella, who tried to sit in his lap. Now he had a lapful of Sam and it just felt _nice_. Sam was grinning, and Steve was kissing him, because he could _do_ that now, and it didn't matter that Sam was black or that they were both men, he could kiss Sam and it was good, better than stolen kisses in alleyways or under the docks. He was _happy_ in a way he hadn't been in a really long time. Sam made him happy.

He still wanted to find Bucky. He worked on leads and learning Russian and translating files with unhealthy obsession. He loved Sam, but Bucky was _family_. He needed to find him. And Sam helped. He tracked down leads and helped Steve pour over files. But he also took those files away from him, made him eat, sleep and shower, and listened to Steve's problems. He encouraged him to find things to fill his time. Steve never knew when the Avengers might need him, but he volunteered at both the local ASPCA and children's hospital, and was thinking of volunteering at one of the local LGBT centers, but he hadn't decided yet.

He and Sam were out to their friends, but with all the backlash already surrounding their post-SHIELD state, Steve didn't want the media shit storm that would be him coming out. He had talked to Tony though, and had a team of PR agents and lawyers on standby should he ever need them.

They'd talked about it a few times, but Sam seemed sort of cagey about the whole thing, which confused Steve. He'd really been expecting to be the reluctant one. But Sam kept dragging his feet, and Steve didn't know how to talk about it. He wasn't a virgin – his new, healthy body had also brought along a healthy libido, and the chorus girls, among others, had been eager to knock boots with Captain America. But he'd never been with a man before. If he was going to risk imprisonment with anyone it would have been Bucky, but they hadn’t. So he didn't really know _what_ he wanted. He wanted more. He wanted some kind of resolution to the burning desire in his gut he got whenever he thought about Sam. But he also wanted Sam to be comfortable. If Sam didn't want sex then Steve didn't want sex, no matter how often he'd have to take matters into his own hands. But he wanted to know _why_ Sam didn't want to have sex. What if he was doing something wrong?

“Sam...” he began, when he'd gone to put his hands up under Sam's shirt and Sam had tugged his hands back down again nervously, “I know I'm old but we don't have to go so slow. You're not gonna shock me.”

Sam made an aborted nervous laughed, and put his head on Steve's shoulder. “You might be surprised, man.”

“Well. I mean, I haven't actually been with a man, so some things might surprise me, but I know how it's done.”

“Really? Never?”

“Uh. No. I've always liked guys but. It was really bad. I mean I know you know but you don't _know._ It was really bad Sam. I couldn't risk it. If I'd only liked guys it woulda been different. I had queer friends. But I did like girls, even though none of them liked me. So I just – didn't. Not with men.”

“You're not – I mean if you are a virgin it's okay but uh.”

“No Sam, I'm not a virgin. Is that the problem? Was I – I dunno, too virginal for you?”

“That's not it, Steve. It's. It's really fucking personal and I – I don't usually even _start_ a relationship without telling someone, and I don't know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Sam looked like he was really struggling, before he finally sighed. “There's no real manual for this. I mean usually people have some idea of what transgender means but – you haven't looked it up have you?”

Steve had heard the term a few times, but, “not really. I know it's the 'T' in LGBT.”

“Yeah. so. Well, I guess the best way to explain it is – I wasn't born as Sam, I was born as Samantha.”

It took Steve a little while to figure out what he meant. Then, “Really? How does that-” Steve ran a hand over Sam's fresh shaved stubble. “You have facial hair.”

“Facial hair? I tell you I was born as a woman and you wanna know how I have facial hair?”

Steve felt a little sheepish, but said, “Well, yeah. I mean. Sometimes fellas dressed as dames and dames as fellas, but they never had facial hair. How that work?”

“Uh. Well, I take hormone shots once a month, which gives me testosterone and blocks estrogen. Turns out hormones have a _lot_ to do with how gender works. You grow facial hair, your body fat redistributes, your bones can actually shift and change depending on how young you are.”

“And that's okay? It's allowed?”

“What do you – oh. Yeah. Gender dysphoria was classified as a mental illness until recently, for me that just meant I had to get a psychiatrist to sign off on your hormones or any surgeries. It also meant I had to be a woman in the service, though I was out to Riley and a few others. Riley actually – the sonuvabitch put me in his will. He paid for my surgery.”

“How does that work?” Steve laid them both down so they were facing each other, and propped himself up on one elbow. “Is that okay to ask? I don't want to be insensitive. I just – we didn't have anything like this.”

“Well...I got a double mastectomy, which is why I don't have boobs. But I've got scars. And I had a hysterectomy, because the thought of having babies simultaneously horrifies and disgusts me. Other than that, I had a metoidioplasty done. It uh. Well it means I have a big clit I guess. You can look it up, if you want?”

“I will, if that's okay. Thanks for trusting me, Sam.”

“You're a weird guy, you know that?”

“Sorry? I just. Well, you can tell me why you wanted to be a man, if you want. But I've been in a body that made me miserable before. I know it's not the same, but I can understand being unhappy and wanting to change. It's the _how_ that's new for me. And the possibility. You could get killed for that kind of thing when I grew up. And if you didn't get killed you could get arrested or blocked from employment or sent to a sanitarium. The few people I knew who cross-dressed all the time were hookers, because that was all the work they could get.”

“People still get killed, unfortunately. But it's not illegal, and there's starting to be laws at the federal and state levels to protect us. You don't get sent away any more. Well, sometimes really shitty parents will send kids to a camp to straighten them out, and it's horrible. I'm not gonna lie Steve, it's not the greatest thing in the world. I pass pretty well, but sometimes someone who knew me as Samantha will cross paths with me and they don't all take it well. I get misgendered and treated like shit sometimes, I get asked a lot of inappropriate questions, and if the press finds out, they're probably gonna drag you through the muck.”

“And you preface all your dating situations with this?”

“Ah, usually I just tell them I'm trans. Generally if they don't know what that is then I don't date them. You're different. I really like you Steve. I was terrified to tell you. I'm still terrified.”

“I'm not going anywhere Sam,” Steve said, and kissed him again.

“Not even if you find Bucky? He's got a dick and I – don't.”

“You think that matters to me? Besides, I uh. Know my way around a vagina.” Steve blushed heavily.

“That really shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does. You are one awkward sunovabitch Steve.”

That made Steve laugh. “I'm the same awkward, ninety pound guy I was before the serum, I've just got muscles now. People always forget that.”

xxx

The asset – Jem – the asset – stared at itself – himself – itself – himself in the mirror. He'd never particularly liked or disliked his body. It just _was_ ; it was a tool used to carry out his missions, that was all. He'd never had a say in what he wore or how he looked. He trained how he was told to train, wore what he was told to wear, acted how he was told to act – or there was pain.

But he didn't have handlers now. His therapists – he had _therapists_ now, even if he couldn't really tell any of them who he was – they'd been surprisingly helpful in teaching him about autonomy and body choice and saying _no._ His therapists encouraged him to find clothes he liked. Not focus on whether they were appropriate or not, just find things that he liked. If it was a pink, flowery skirt, that was okay as long as he liked it. If the asset wanted to figure out fashion, that would come later. This was about what the asset liked. About what _Jem_ liked – whoever that was.

So the asset was on the floor, legs crossed, staring at himself in his full length mirror that he had purchased just for this assignment. He'd bought a veritable ton of clothing, mostly at thrift stores because the asset did not have access to the kind of money he'd need to shop elsewhere. He could steal it, or work more, but the asset was disinclined to do either. And he didn't have to work if he didn't want to, his therapists were very clear on that. The asset knew there weren't a lot of other employment options for him, but he still took their direction. If he didn't feel like working, he didn't. He felt like it enough to pay his bills, and unlike more normal people, the asset had very little drive to purchase material goods, so his cost of living was greatly reduced. As Jeb said, he might be living under a roof, but he really wasn't ready to come in out of the cold yet.

But that wasn't the mission today. The mission was to find something to wear that he liked, and the asset thought he had succeeded. He had on a very soft, knitted sweater in an orange and red wool that covered his sharp corners and made him softer, less threatening. Plus it had a very tall collar on it, which hung about his shoulders but could also be used to cover his face.

Under the sweater he had on a simple white tank top, with thin straps and some lace at the color. The asset liked lace. His underwear was black, with lace, coming down just onto his thighs. He hadn't known they made underwear for men like that. Over his underwear he had a comfortable, broken in pair of thin, faded black jeans which fit him snugly and made him look more slender. His long, knee length socks were striped in blue, white and brown. He wiggled his toes in the mirror. He liked his socks. He'd gotten them in the women's section, but he liked them.

The asset had also shaved his face, his one flesh armpit, and his legs. He liked the way the stocking felt against his smooth legs. He'd left alone the wiry hair that was starting to grow in on his chest. Hydra had waxed him – hot, burning wax and the sharp pain of hair being ripped out of him. All to have better access to his skin and what lay underneath it. No – the asset did not want to shave his chest.

The asset didn't go anywhere. He just sat there, in his apartment, looking at himself in the mirror and wiggling his toes. He felt – something. He wasn't sure what. But it was something.

xxx

Steve thought maybe he was going crazy. Ever since he and Sam had that talk, being transgender was all he could think about. He'd read practically every book about it he could get his hands on. He'd searched the internet extensively, which made him upset more often than not. It might not be illegal any more, but transgender people still had to deal with a lot of hate. Transwomen seemed to have the greatest problems, with straight men claiming they'd been 'tricked' into sleeping with a 'man.' As if even after extensive surgery, years of hormone therapy and living as a woman full time, transwomen still weren't actually women unless they'd been born with a vagina. As if a single sex organ defined a person.

It made Steve mad. He loved Sam and wasn't going to leave him, but if he was single he would have dated the _shit_ out of a transwoman. He'd hold doors and chairs for her, buy her flowers and pretty things, treat her right. And be interested in her for her, no matter what parts she had. He just wished more people felt that way.

Speaking of which, he and Sam still hadn't had sex. Steve was bound and determined to wait until Sam was ready, but he wished he could communicate that it was _okay_. He wanted Sam to feel comfortable. They had made out topless the other day, and Steve had kissed Sam's surgical scars until he stopped trying to cover them up with his hands or clothes or the sheets. So that was progress. Steve understood, in a way. He hadn't even let himself think about guys growing up, terrified that someone would find out. It wasn't exactly the same, but that terror, that fear of rejection and retribution, Steve could understand that. Though he'd really like to find whoever had made Sam so self conscious and put his fist through their face. Sam deserved better.

When Steve had still been small, he'd had more than a passing interest in cross dressing. It had started out simple – just looking at all the colors a woman could buy to paint their nails or their face, watching his mother do her makeup in the morning. It was fascinating.

Once his mother died, Steve found himself dressing up in her clothes, just to remember her by. He was surprised at how good he actually looked in a dress and pumps. That had scared him. He got called a fairy enough as it was. Steve had boxed her clothes up and not tried them on again. But he kept finding himself staring at women's clothes in shops. Usually while he was pretending to draw something else.

Now, Steve didn't know what any of that meant. He didn't want to be a woman, at least not right now. A lot of the books talked about a transgender journey, and how everyone was different. Someone might start out thinking they wanted to be another gender, then decide they wanted to be non-binary, or any number of other things. Maybe they decided they were comfortable with how they were.

Steve didn't know how to bring it up to Sam, either. Especially since he didn't know what he wanted. He didn't want Sam to think he was just trying to show solidarity or something by claiming to be trans. That could really go badly if Steve wasn't careful.

Maybe it didn't matter. He was whoever he was, and he didn't have to figure out everything right that moment. He could give himself some time to process everything, and just keep his mind open. Who knew what would happen?

Steve sighed, putting down his book and pulling closer the stack of documents he'd been putting off reading. He still wanted to find Bucky – there was just so much ground to cover. Leads led to more leads which led to dead ends or sometimes Hydra secret bases with their stupid paper records, half of which were in ciphers, and maybe Steve could decrypt half of them. Most of what he read turned his stomach, and with the sheer volume of files, Steve felt like he was no closer to finding Bucky than he had been when he'd started. Sure, he had done good work, and he was always on board for wiping Hydra out of existence, but he wanted to make _progress_. Something to let him know his friend was alive and not back in a cryo tank. Hopefully Bucky was doing as good of a job hiding from anyone else who wanted him as he was at hiding from Steve. At this rate, they weren't likely to find him unless he wanted to be found.

Still. This stack of potential leads wasn't going to sort itself. Steve raked his hand through his hair, said a quick prayer to anyone who might be listening (at this point he'd take divine guidance from anyone who would give it,) and got to work.

xxx

The asset was wondering if it was time to come in out of the cold. He was perched on a rooftop, several houses over from the house belonging to Sam Wilson aka Falcon aka Captain America's boyfriend. They thought they were being discreet. They weren't.

At first, the asset had gone to Captain America's apartment, but hadn't found anything but an empty set of rooms that was still taped off with yellow police tape, waiting for a SHIELD cleanup team that would never come. The asset could tell he was not the first to come here, snooping around, and was glad Steve – Captain America – had moved.

The asset spent the rest of the day, and the two days after that, booby trapping the apartment. Anyone who entered with a key would be fine. Anyone else – not so much. He viciously hoped Hydra would come sniffing around and get a taste of what they'd taught him. Bastards.

He'd gone back to his normal schedule for a week or two after that. Hung out with Jeb, who refused to take the asset's money (so the asset put it into his pockets when Jeb wasn't looking) went to therapy, ate, worked out. Work was fine, though thoughts about what Captain America would think if he knew kept creeping in. The asset snarled and shoved those thoughts aside. He could do whatever he wanted – his body was _his_ now. No one else's. Not even the Captain's. Something about that thought made his heart ache, which only further confused and angered him. He just didn't understand.

The feeling refused to go away. So now, the asset perched on the roof and watched them - Captain America and his boyfriend. If the asset had still been the Winter Soldier, he could have killed them easily. But he didn't want to do that. He wanted to make sure Steve was okay. That was important, he knew. Steve needed to be okay.

Steve and Sam ate breakfast together. They poured over files together. There was a huge map on the wall, with various colored tacks on it. They were looking for something. There was a guest room that had Steve's shield and a few duffel bags in it, but Steve didn't sleep there. He slept with Sam. They hadn't had sex when the asset watched, but there was often kissing and petting both in the morning, before bed, and throughout the day. Steve looked frustrated. Sam looked nervous. The asset couldn't claim to understand what was wrong. Perhaps nothing was wrong. But it felt – off.

The asset found that watching Steve was a habit he couldn't shake. He still followed his manual for self care – religiously, if anything the asset did could be religious – worked, struggled with basic tasks like food shopping or laundry, and still visited the shelter probably more than he should. They seemed to like him though, and it was nice to go somewhere he could speak to everyone without using his voice or scribbling out sentences on the little spiral bound notebook he kept in his back pocket.

The asset thought he might be able to form words if he had to, but he didn't want to. If he signed he knew it would be ASL; if he spoke, any one of a dozen languages might come out of his mouth. And his voice wasn't the same as it had been before, according to the films. It was rusty, strained. Ruined from too much screaming. Signing was better.

But the asset trailed the captain when he left the house he shared with Sam. He caused small, harmless accidents and delays that kept reporters at bay, killed any agents shadowing him (Hydra, AIM and others who meant harm; he knew the difference between surveillance and lethal intent.) The other agents, the CIA and FBI and former SHIELD – the nosy – the ones who blamed the captain – the asset was careful not to be seen, but he broke legs and ankles, stole guns and ripped badges to shreds. Eventually the Captain lost his tails. There was a more concentrated effort to find whoever was disabling agents, but the Captain was left alone.

The asset didn't care. When he wore slim jeans and high boots, a soft, multicolored sweater with his hand tucked into his pocket, his hair pulled back into a bun, the neck of his sweater pulled up to cover half his face; no one looked at him like a threat. Some looked at him with desire or interest, but not suspicion. Sometimes his lime green nails or multicolored frilled skirts drew disgusted looks, but no one connected him to the Winter Soldier. Few seemed to even recognize him as a crazy vet. Even Jeb thought he looked nice.

“You clean up real good kid. Find someone you wanna impress?”

/Maybe. Might – get off the street. For real. Not just half-way./

“Yeah? I'm glad to hear it. You be sure to bring that person around if you do, alright? I wanna meet em.”

And Jeb also wanted to make sure he was safe, but the old man didn't point it out. That was alright. The asset felt the need to make sure Jeb was alright, too. Maybe get him to go see his daughter, even if he wouldn't move in with her. The asset was pretty sure Jeb would keep living in his tent until he died. For some reason, the asset found that he hoped that was a long time from now.

xxx

In the end, it was a coincidence that brought the asset back into Steve Roger's life. Or maybe it wasn't. The asset was normally careful not to be seen, so when he was finally caught tailing Steve from his morning coffee shop to the animal shelter, he probably _wanted_ to be caught.

To the asset's credit, Steve didn't recognize him at first. He waited until they'd reached a secluded spot – behind the animal shelter – and then he struck, pushing the asset back against the bricks, his fist in the asset's sweater. It had better not wrinkle. The soft blue lambswool had been knitted for him by one of the guys at the shelter who was always trying to get the asset to learn to knit. The asset didn't tell him he knew twenty-six possible ways to kill someone with a pair of knitting needles, and that he doubted he'd ever be able to actually focus on the task without thinking about death.

“Who are you and why the hell are you following me? I know you're more than a fan. You move like a soldier.”

As happy as the asset was that Steve at least recognized him as a threat, the asset wanted him to back _off._ He grabbed Steve's wrist with his metal hand, and signed with his flesh hand.

/Let go./

“Bucky?” Steve looked shocked, but at least let go. He immediately tried to go for a hug, but thankfully stopped himself before the asset had to punch him.

“What-where-how-” Steve was more than a little flustered. Finally he settled on, “where'd you get the sweater? I didn't even recognize you.”

The asset glared a bit. It was a nice sweater though, so he signed, /it was a gift from someone at the shelter./

Steve used to know ASL, back when he was still small. The asset remembered learning signs with him, because while Steve would never admit it, he was almost completely deaf in one ear. Back then, ASL had been discouraged, with an emphasis on lip reading and generally pretending that a person's disability didn't exist, which of course had only made Steve study harder. He'd been a stubborn, defiant little shit. That hadn't changed.

Steve frowned at the signs, as if he was unsure that he still remembered what they meant, which was ridiculous. The Captain had perfect recall – a side affect of the serum. The asset had read all his files.

“You can't talk?”

/Don't want to./ It was his body, his voice. He didn't have to talk if he didn't want to.

“Are you – okay?”

The asset considered this. Probably from Steve's point of view he wasn't, but he fed and clothed himself, went to therapy and had a friend. Several, if you counted the people at the shelter. He was doing very well, all things considered. So the asset just shrugged.

“I've been looking everywhere for you.”

/I never left./

“Why were you following me?”

The asset shrugged again. /Needed to make sure you were okay. Wilson's security is terrible./

Steve looked a bit nervous then. “You've been watching the house?”

/I saw you with Wilson. I don't care. But you need better security./

“Of course that's what you're worried about. God Bucky, it's so good to see you. Are you eating okay? Can I – do anything? I was going to find you and let you stay with me and get better but you. You're okay.”

/Don't you usually feed animals now?/ The asset changed the subject. He was fine.

“Uh, yeah. You wanna come in?”

The asset liked animals. They were honest in a way people never were. He'd always hated having to kill animals on missions, even if he felt nothing for his targets.

/Yes./

Steve seemed pleased with this answer, not weirded out at all that a man who had tried to kill him now wanted to volunteer at an animal shelter with him. The asset followed Steve inside, stopping at the break room to strip off his sweater for the soft, long sleeved t-shirt underneath. Then he stowed his sweater in Steve' locker and followed the Captain out.

They stopped at the front desk to sign the asset in, but it was extremely easy. The plump black woman at the desk smiled and winked at him when Steve said Bucky was a friend. (He at least used 'James' instead of Bucky.) The woman seemed to have no problem at all with him helping out, if Steve vouched for him.

If only she knew.

“So uh, they don't like people working with the dogs unless they're certified, but you can help with the cats if you want.”

The asset shrugged.

“Mostly they just need to be socialized. The workers try their best but this is a no kill shelter, so they're always overcrowded and people don't get to spend as much time with the animals as they'd like.”

/Which is why you volunteer./

“Well, yeah. The animals don't care if I'm Captain America, and the shelter gets more business and donations because I work here. It's nice to be needed by someone who doesn't want an autograph.”

The asset though he understood. He followed Steve into a closed off room, where there were a few free roaming cats perched about. Lining the walls were other cats in crates and a few large pens of tangled kittens.

“The free roaming cats are the shelter mascots, so don't worry about cages for them. For the rest of them just open their cages, and if they want to be picked up and petted then you can. Don't open up any of the cages with the red tags though. Those cats aren't ready to be handled.”

The asset nodded. Steve stood there anxiously watching him as he sat on the ground and put six kittens on himself to show Steve that yes, he would be fine. He liked their wet noses and soft, poking toes, and their little cries. They were happy cries, not sad cries. Steve was right, the asset thought, as he rubbed between a kitten's ears, it was nice to be needed.

Steve slipped away to go clean dog cages and probably talk people into adopting a pet. The asset played with the kittens (their claws and teeth didn't hurt him metal arm) until they all fell asleep in contented pile of limbs on his thighs.

The asset put them carefully back in their crate, not waking a single one. These kittens were good, curious, and healthy. They would find homes.

Now that Steve was gone, the asset looked over at the cages with the reg tagged cats. Many of them were lurking near the back of their cages, and more than one hissed at him or swiped out a paw. One cat, however, made a sort of 'mmrp' sound, and came right up the the door of its cage. It looked up at him with oval green eyes and casually butted its head against the door. The cat's tag declared it to be “Jafar,” a male golden spotted Bengal.

The asset opened the door, ignoring Steve's warning. Jafar seemed immediately interested, and after taking a cautious step forward, (the cat was missing his right front leg about half way down,) he _lept_ across the remaining space and landed on the asset's shoulder. Jafar nosed through the asset's hair, poked the edge of the asset's shirt, and batted his hail against the asset's metal arm before draping himself around the asset's neck like a living scarf.

Jafar meowed loudly, much louder than the other cats, and didn't stop until the asset scratched him behind the ears, when he promptly began purring. Steve appeared a minute later, possibly drawn by all the noise Jafar had made.”

“Bucky are you -o-”

Jafar _yowled_ at the sight of Steve, and dug his claws into the asset, pressing his body back against the asset's neck.

“Is that Jafar?”

The asset nodded. /Back off./

Steve closed the door and watched through the window set into it. As soon as the door clicked shut, Jafar calmed, and went back to purring. Steve signed through the window.

/I'll be damned. That cat hates _everyone._ /

The asset shrugged, and scratched Jafar behind the ears. /I'll take him./

“Uh. Ok. Put him back in his cage for now and we can go fill out paperwork.”

The asset gave Jafar one last scratched between the ears and then put him back in his cage. The cat meowed loudly and the asset signed, /I'll be right back/, though he doubted the animal had been trained with sign language. He and Steve walked back out to the desk, where Steve did all the talking with that smile and twinkling eyes.

“You've found someone Jafar likes? That's so wonderful!” The woman gushed, and began whistling while she pulled out the required paperwork.

The asset filled in the forms with precise penmanship that had been drilled into him for writing mission reports. Steve looked over his shoulder, but didn't say anything when the asset filled in Sam's address under place of residence. The asset pulled two somewhat wrinkled fifty dollar bills out of his boot to cover the adoption fee, which Steve raised his eyebrows at, but didn't comment on.

“All right, I'll just file this really quick and go get his tags. I'm so glad Jafar is finally finding a home!”

“He's been here for two years,” Steve murmured. “They cycled him around to some other no kill shelters, but the first person he's liked was you.”

/We understand each other./

There was a starter pack for new owners – a cat crate to take Jafar home in, a collar for his tags, a few toys, a soft blanket, a cheap litter box, plastic food dishes, litter, and food. The asset wondered if it was possible to have Jafar pick out things he liked for himself, at some point. Choice was important.

Jafar fussed as he was put into his cat carrier, but nibbled on the asset's finger and butted his head up against the asset's hand when he put it in front of the crate.

“Let's take a taxi back so you don't have to carry him the whole way,” Steve suggested. He had retrieved the asset's sweater from his locker, and the asset took a moment to put it on before picking up everything.

The asset reluctantly agreed. He had a gun and three knives on him, plus the arm. He could neutralize any potential threat.

“Are you actually going to live with me or did you put that address down for show?” Steve asked him, when he'd handed a piece a paper with Sam's address on it to the taxi driver.

/Easier to keep you out of trouble./

“Yeah, okay. I wasn’t expecting this to be so easy.”

The asset rolled his eyes and reached in a metal finger to scratch Jafar's chin. /None of this has been easy./

“I just meant I didn't think you'd come live with me. Not without a lot of wheedling.”

/No thank you./

“Didn't miss that?” Steve teased, but the asset shrugged. He didn't really remember much, even now.

The asset paid when they got out, from the rolled bills he kept in his boot, again. Steve probably thought he stole it. He'd seen it twice now, which meant he had to know about how much money was in in the bill roll. Jafar meowed in his crate and sniffed around.

/New home./ The asset signed to Jafar. Steve looked like he might cry.

“Sam's home early. Oh man, this'll be interesting.”

The asset merely followed Steve to the door and walked in after him. He took off his shoes when Steve dd, and the moment the door was closed, opened the cage door for Jafar who immediately came out and twined himself around the asset's ankles, fussing loudly.

/Home./

Sam Wilson's voice carried from the kitchen, along with delicious spicy food smells. “Did you bring a cat home? I thought we talked about this Steve.”

“I brought home more than that.”

“What do you mean? Don't tell me you got a -”

Sam came around the corner with an apron on over his clothes, holding a spatula. “Oh. Hey man.”

/Hello./

“Bucky doesn't talk now. He signs. He said hello, in case you were wondering. You...don't know ASL do you?”

“A little bit. But I could learn. You staying here?” Sam asked the asset.

The asset nodded. Then looked at Steve and frowned before signing, /if that's okay./

Steve translated.

“Yeah, man. We've been looking for you. You look good. You been doin' okay?”

The asset raised his hand and wobbled it a bit.

“I hear ya man. Steve, why don't you get him set up in the guest room? There's gonna be some sweet dinner soon. Plenty for both of you.”

/He took that well,” the asset signed, scooping up his cat and following Steve to the guest room. Jafar didn't like being picked up apparently, but forgave the asset once he was on his shoulders.

“Sam's great,” Steve said, and opened a door into what was presumably the guest room. It was nice; blue walls, wood paneled floor, a dresser with a TV on it, a relatively large bed and a spacious closet.

Th asset set up Jafar's things, filed the box with litter and filled the food dishes with food and water. The asset made a next of the provided blanket and his undershirt in the crate, which he left open.

Jafar hopped down from the asset's shoulder to the bed with a surprising amount of grace. Of course then he immediately flopped over on his bad side and waved his front paw in the air, yowling. The asset smiled and played with his cat with his metal fingers.

“It's crazy how much that cat likes you.”

The asset shrugged.

“You staying for dinner?”

The asset didn't know how many calories were going to be in the food, or if it was likely to make him sick. His nutrition plan was in his safe house, which he needed to clean out and abandon. He could find a new place if things with Steve didn't work out.

/No, I'll be back./

That seemed to make Steve sad, but he nodded.

So the asset made his way back to his safe house to have his proscribed smoothie and dinner before packing up all of the possessions that he cared to take with him. The mattress could stay, along with the various bits of boxes and things he'd used as 'furniture.' He took his toiletry set, his one towel, all the clothes he'd collected, the kit he used to clean and maintain his arm, his instructional guide to personal care, and the weapons he'd amassed. It filled two duffel bags. He made a separate trip for the full length mirror, which he put on the guest room door while Sam and Steve slept. All the food and kitchen things he'd collected were left in front of the asset's neighbor’s door, who had five children. The asset slipped his last rent payment under the landlord's door with a note saying he wasn't coming back.

Then, after checking on his cat again (Jafar was sleeping happily on the bed, had eaten and used his litter box,) he went to work as usual. Something would have to be done about Wilson's security if the asset was going to live there, but that was a problem for another time. For now, Steve would have to be security enough.

Work was – tedious. The asset was used to simply switching his brain off and getting the job done, but tonight Steve kept creeping into his thoughts. Perhaps it was time to be getting out of this particular business. Yet he still didn't know what else he'd do if not this. He'd have to think about it – a daunting prospect.

He called it an early night and picked the lock back into Wilson's house at four in the morning. Then he proceeded to do a perimeter check, shoring up the security as much as he could, putting up a few proximity alarms and tripwires on all vulnerable points of entry. Non-lethal, at least until he could tell Wilson about them. Steve would never forgive him if he murdered Steve' boyfriend.

Then he drank three protein shakes to make up for his missed food schedule, brushed his teeth, and curled up with a blanket and thin pillow inside his closet, facing the door, with two knives, his Sig Saur, and his Skorpion within easy reach. Jafar came and curled up against the asset's chest and it was relatively easy to fall asleep with a large purring cat against him.

xxx

Far too early, Steve was knocking on the asset's door. The asset was awake before Steve's knock, jarred from sleep by the presence of another person. Jafar didn't appreciate the awakening, scowling at the door before butting his head back against the asset's chest until it scratched under Jafar's chin.

“Hey Bucky, are you awake?”

The asset considered its options on letting Steve know it was, indeed, awake. It finally settled on knocking on the closet wall, '-.-- . ...”.

“Would you mind coming out? Sam has to go to work soon and I think we should talk.”

The asset considered how much its schedule had been thrown off. But this was Steve. But it needed to brush its teeth first. And a breakfast smoothie and coffee. Coffee might have been the best thing about being a free asset.

Jafar was displeased by the asset getting up but when the asset picked him up and placed him on the bed, the cat settled easily enough. The asset changed into new clothes for the day – blue lace underwear, short white stockings, dark blue denim that hugged its legs, an undershirt and a rainbow striped knit sweater that it pushed up to its elbows. Then it took down its hair, brushed that out, and tied its hair back up with a rainbow scrunchie and bronze clips. It also stuck a pair of metal pointed chopsticks into its bun, just in case. Its Sig Saur went into a side holster, and its knives were strapped to each ankle. That was sufficient protection for the home. It stowed its other weapons away from Jafar. Perhaps a gun rack would be nice for the closet.

Then it grabbed its toiletry bad and opened the door. Steve was still standing there, so the asset scowled at him.

/Coffee,/ it signed, /extra cream and sugar./

“Right, yeah. I'll go make some,” Steve said, seeming mystified that it was so well put together in the mornings. The asset wondered if Steve didn't like it looking cute.

There was a bathroom across the hall that the asset went to use, though not before Jafar streaked across the floor and twined around its legs. The asset let Jafar explore the bathroom while it brushed and flossed its teeth, applied deodorant and decided whether to shave. It rather liked the scruff on its face this morning, and the manual said it could choose. So it didn't shave anything.

Jafar was fascinated by the faucet, so they played for a few minutes before the asset opened its door again and went back to its room to put away its toiletries. It didn't want to shut Jafar in its room but the sounds and smells of the other occupants of the house seemed to make the cat disinclined to leave in any case.

The asset smelled breakfast – pancakes and syrup, fruit and bacon. That was good. The asset was behind on its daily calorie intake. It would have seconds if necessary. Best of all was the coffee smell. Steve hadn't skimped on the coffee. It smelled divine.

The entered the kitchen, where Steve was reclining back against the counter top; and Sam was flipping pancakes, laughing about something Steve had said. Steve was smiling.

Then they noticed the asset and things – hitched for a moment. Sam's training as a soldier became obvious in that moment. He stiffened slightly, made a slight movement to where the asset knew him to have a gun – their smiles faded, though Steve tried to keep his in place. Sam rallied quickly though; the asset was impressed. “Hey man. You want some pancakes?”

The asset nodded and did some quick calculations. /I need approximately four six-inch pancakes, five pieces of bacon, butter, syrup and one cup of fruit to meet my caloric requirements./

“Okay,” Sam agreed, after Steve relayed that, and continued to flip pancakes.

The asset sat at the table and let Steve serve it, because it didn't want to get in the way, and didn't feel comfortable moving around the other two yet. It drank its coffee and answered Steve's questions about its nutritional plan with its flesh hand, while Steve relayed the conversation to Wilson. The asset felt grateful for Steve's memory. This would have gone beyond uncomfortable and into impossible if it had had to speak.

/The most important thing is to eat until I am not hungry,/ the asset said, in case Steve didn't know.

Steve's expression grew strained. “Of course Buck. You shouldn't go hungry. Did you have to before?”

With HYDRA, he meant. Steve was not subtle.

/All of the asset's needs are secondary to the mission./

“How about now?” Sam asked. “You look like you've been taking pretty good care of yourself.”

/Self sufficiency _is_ the mission. The asset's needs are paramount./

“That's good.” Wilson shot Steve a look, like he wasn't sure that was good, or not.

/It is necessary to gain what was lost./

“What was lost, Buck?” Steve asked earnestly.

/Your friend, Bucky Barnes./

That made Steve look at Sam. He looked sad. “You're still my friend, Bucky.”

The asset just nodded, and took the plate of food Steve handed it, before digging in. It ate quickly, drank its juice, and then finished its coffee, well before Sam finished his breakfast. Steve asked the asset if it wanted seconds. It considered for a moment, then shook its head. It wasn't hungry, and had fulfilled its caloric requirements.

“So Bucky, Sam and I wanted to talk to you about staying here.”

/Do you want me to leave?/

“No!” Steve said, while Sam shook his head.

“What Steve's trying to say, badly, is that he doesn't know what you need. I mean, how are you?”

The asset considered. /Functional./

“I thought maybe you wanted to come live here because you were looking for something you couldn't get elsewhere,” Sam said.

/It will be good to no longer depend on relative strangers./ Then the asset frowned. The people at the shelter weren't really strangers now. It certainly knew them more than it knew Wilson. Though it had fought Wilson.

It switched tactics. /Would you like to come meet my therapist?/

That shocked both of them. Steve recovered first. “You've got a therapist?”

/Yes. Anne is helpful. She provided me with a manual which tells me how to do self maintenance. She will be pleased I am not living 'rough' now./

“Uh, sure Buck. I'd love to meet your therapist.”

The asset nodded. /Then I will stay here Your security needs to be upgraded Wilson. Don't make that face. I know you two are together. Don't feel as if you need to hold back on my account./

Steve looked guilty. “You don't mind?”

/Were you previously in a relationship with your friend? It's not documented./ And the asset didn't remember it.

“No. Bucky and I weren't. Not like that.”

/Then why would I mind?/

That seemed to upset Steve, which the asset didn't understand. Sam put a hand on Steve's shoulder and squeezed it, and Steve blinked a few times, his eyes red.

“That's real nice of you Buck.”

“I've gotta go to work now, but welcome to the family, man,” Sam said. “Try not to do anything illegal with my security upgrades, okay? No mines in my front yard or anything.”

As if the asset would use something as easily dismantled as mines.

/Therapist,/ it signed at Steve. /And Jeb./

Steve nodded, getting up to put his dishes in the dishwasher.

“Wait. Who's Jeb?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lotsa fluff here. :3

Chapter 3

“You've been coming here?”

The asset nodded, and signed to Kara. /I found a place to stay. Is Anne in? I want to tell her./

“Of course Jem,” she said while signing. “Who's your friend?”

/Steve Rogers, ma'am,” Steve introduced himself.

She peeled off a name sticker and handed it to the asset as usual, though she seemed a bit flustered. “Oh. Oh my. Um. Welcome.”

“B-Jem wanted me to meet his therapist. I'm assuming he'll need to find another now that he no longer qualifies for the facility?”

Kara recovered quickly, and wrote out Steve's name badge, writing H in the left corner, E in the right, and ASL in the top right corner. “Well, Anne has an office outside the shelter. She doesn't have a lot of openings, but if Jem is doing really well, she might make the space. Do you think you'd like to talk to her?”

The asset nodded. Anne was – special to him. She understood him. She pushed him when he needed it and left him alone when he couldn't deal with anything.

Kara flipped through a schedule in front of her, and then nodded. “She's got a little free time now, if you want to see her.”

“Is it okay is Jem shows me around a little? If this is a place he feels comfortable – well, that's a place I'm interested in. If that's okay with you Jem?”

The asset shrugged.

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”

“Steve, please.”

“Steve.” Anne blushed. The asset wondered if he should tell her Steve had a boyfriend.

“Shall we?”

The asset nodded again, and led Steve through the facility, and into the back where the counseling offices were, white noise machines installed outside. Anne's was off, as she wasn't currently in a session. Steve seemed generally interested in everything around him.

The asset flashed the lights twice, as Anne had taught it to do, before walking in. She was filling out paperwork, but smiled and gestured for him to come in. Anne was deaf, and never pressured him to talk, although they had established that it was possible for him to do so, and that he was hearing.

/Jem! What brings you by today?/

/I'm off the street now. I thought I should tell you./

/That's wonderful! Who are you staying with?/

The asset gestured to Steve, who picked up on the fact that Anne wasn't hearing and only signed. /Steve Rogers. Jem's a friend of mine. Been looking for him for a while. He told me you took care of him, and that means a lot to me./ He offered his hand for her to shake, which she took.

/Jem takes care of himself. We just taught him how,/ she corrected, but smiled.

/Kara said you might be able to still see me./ Jem said.

Anne nodded. /I think that would be best. Unless you want to see someone else?/

The asset shook his head violently.

Steve turned slightly away from Anne and said, “ Avez-vous lui a parlé du Soldat d'Hiver? ”

The asset shook his head.

“ Pensez-vous que vous voulez? ”

The asset considered, then nodded.

Steve nodded back, and turned to Anne. /Sorry for being rude. How would you feel about getting your security clearance raised?/

xxx

Half an hour later, Anne had a three way conference scheduled with Maria Hill, who knew her way around security clearances, and Steve, who would act as an interpreter. Anne had actually suggested Steve get certified as an interpreter, since he would likely be translating for the Bucky and such things required a license now. He would have to study some, since the signs that he and Bucky used weren't always the same as the signs used now, but it sounded like a good idea, and Steve was looking forward to having something on his resume that didn't involve murder.

Much of SHIELD info had been dumped onto the net, but a lot of other agencies had swooped in to pick it up, and there were some things, like the Winter Soldier program, that had never been in the database to begin with. A high security clearance would ensure Anne's safety, legally and physically. It would be best for Bucky (should he call him Jem? It seemed like that was the name Bucky went by at the shelter,) if he could talk about anything he wanted to relating to the program. Steve didn't knew how much Bucky remembered, but he seemed to be handling things pretty well, and Steve wanted to make sure he maintained the ability to do so.

Then Bucky had taken him around the rest of the facility. The 901 did good work, and was one of the higher quality shelters Steve had seen. Still, there was always a need for money, and Steve planned on donating a portion of the ridiculous back pay check he'd retrieved to the shelter. He'd probably even shoot Tony a line, because the man was spending money anyways. Might as well spend it on something worthwhile. He was considering volunteering, too. He'd get to speak ASL with people who couldn't communicate any other way, and it might help him feel like he was doing something that actually mattered.

Now Bucky was introducing him to Jeb, who was apparently the homeless man that had gotten Bucky to go to the shelter to begin with. The older black man was sitting on a corner between an upper-scale neighborhood and a set of restaurants. He had a chair, a hat with some loose bills in it, playing an accordion. There was a cane next to the chair, and Steve caught the briefest peek of a prosthetic leg.

Bucky put on a dazzling smile as he approached the man, and it made Steve's breath catch. He was beautiful. Beautiful and happy and making his own life, mostly without Steve's help. Jeb finished the last chord on his accordion before stowing it beside him and opening his arms for a big hug. Steve desperately tried not to be jealous.

/Come say hello Steve./ Bucky insisted, waving him over.

/Jeb doesn't sign much but he understands./

“Arthritis,” the man said, almost sheepishly.

/I don't mind./

“Hello Jeb, B-Jem's told me a lot about you.”

“You didn't tell me you knew _Steve Rogers_ , Jem,” Jeb chided. Bucky ducked his head a little.

“We're old friends.”

“Yeah? He ain't who you were running from?” Jeb looked ready to do battle on Bucky's behalf.

/No. Steve helped me get away./

“I've been looking for him since.” Steve said, not knowing how much Bucky had told the man.

/I wasn't ready. But I am now./

“I'm glad for you, boy.”

/You ready yet?/

“Now, just cuz you got things figured out don't mean you need to try to fix mine.”

Bucky shrugged. /Call your daughter. I bet she misses you./

“Bah.”

Steve had a feeling Jeb would do just that.

They stayed for a while and talked, and Bucky seemed happy. Before they left he slid a hundred dollar bill in Jeb's hat, and then took off running. Steve didn't know why until Jeb started yelling about charity and damn meddling brats, and then Steve couldn't help but laugh.

Bucky was waiting for him a few blocks over with a smirk on his face. /Lunch?/

“Sure.”

Things weren't fixed by any means, but they were getting better.

xxx

Two weeks after Bucky came back, Sam let Steve undress him completely. Which led, of course, to the first time they'd had sex. It was – fantastic.

“So you really weren't lying,” Sam said, after he'd pulled a pair of boxers on and gotten back into bed. Steve preferred to sleep naked, and now that their relationship had progressed, he'd probably start doing it every night.

“Lying about what?”

“You really _do_ know your way around a vagina.”

Steve snickered. “Don't tell anyone. You'll ruin my reputation.”

“As a blushing virgin no doubt. Man, you've got everyone fooled.”

Steve shrugged. “Who I'm sleeping with is between me and whomever I'm doing it with.”

“Well, I gotta say, you squashed pretty much all the qualms I had about us doing the horizontal tango.”

“Oh? What qualms?”

“Maybe you didn't notice, but I don't have a dick.”

“I've seen the box under your bed Sam. You've got about five.”

Sam's eyes softened, and he smiled. “You really mean that, don't you.”

“Of course. They're still yours. You just get to choose from different colors.”

“You're a really special man, you know that? Most people don't think about it like that. Most people don't treat me the way you do.”

“You're a guy Sam. That's all there is to it.”

“Never change Rogers.”

Steve gave him a deep kiss for that. He was glad that Sam seemed to finally be assured that Steve wasn't really going anywhere, because he _wasn't_ going anywhere.

“So does this mean I can get you to fuck me with one of them soon? I really prefer to bottom.”

Sam stared at him in shock for a moment, before lunging for him. There wasn't any more talking after that. Sam was too busy showing Steve how much he loved him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On camera sex work for the first paragraph of this chapter. If that makes you uncomfortable, skip down to 'Steve was waiting,'
> 
> The scene is short and not very graphic but be careful if you think it might be triggering. Stay safe!!

Chapter 4

The asset grunted as a customer shoved into him too fast, and had to dig his hands into the wall to refrain from choking the man. The customer's fingers jerked at the asset's hair, and he bit back a snarl. He hated this, he realized. He hadn't, before. It had been a job, a means to an end. But at some point he'd stopped thinking about himself as a thing and started considering himself a person, and he just couldn't go back to being a thing any more.

When the man was finished, the asset took his money savagely and yanked up his pants. 

“Don't get in such a snit, princess,” the man sneered.

The asset ignored him, though he did push past him hard enough to knock the man into a wall. He was done with this. He didn't want to do it any more.

Steve was waiting for him when he got home. Apparently the asset should have stayed out later.

/I don't want to talk Steve. I want a shower./

Steve nodded, but the asset knew he could smell the sex. He hadn't exactly bothered to wipe down after the last customer. He probably looked dreadful. 

The asset stripped off his working clothes and threw them right into the trash. He never wanted to see them again. If they were in a more remote location, he'd burn them. Then he scrubbed himself until his skin was raw and there was no trace that anyone else had been over or in him. He still felt dirty. He hadn't felt that way before. He hadn't cared. What had changed?

Jafar had hopped into the shower with him, because he _loved_ water, and the asset had to spend a good ten minutes drying him off. Then he spent another fifteen minutes petting and playing with him. Jafar made him feel better. Made him feel like something he'd done was good, even if it had just been bringing the cat home from the shelter. 

Steve was still waiting when he got out, a towel wrapped around his waist. Normally the asset wouldn't have cared. Instead he went to his room for an undershirt and loose cotton pants before coming back out to talk to Steve. If he didn't Steve would probably sit out there until morning.

Jafar deigned to come out and sit with him, even though he scowled at Steve. Steve stuck his tongue back out at the cat, which made the asset smile.

“You okay Bucky?”

/You stayed up all night just to ask me that?/

“I was worried.”

/I was working./

“I know,” Steve said softly. “I gotta ask, did you pick that job because you remembered doing it?”

/Bucky was a whore?/

_“No_. You aren't, either. But sometimes we had to pay the bills and he'd go out at night and come back with cash and not say where he got it, just that he earned it. I'm not stupid, then or now.”

/You don't need to worry. I'm done./

“I didn't mean to make you stop working.”

/No,/ the asset closed his hand with a sharp movement. /I'm stopping because I don't want to any more. I didn't used to care but now I do. So I'm done./

“Yeah, okay. I'm proud of you.”

/Seriously?/

“Yeah, you did what you had to do without hurting anyone but yourself, and when you figured out you _were_ hurting yourself, you stopped. That's a serious decision Bucky. I'm proud of you.”

/I don't know how I feel. If I feel. I need another job./

“We'll figure that out in the morning. Sam's not going to kick you out.”

/I'm not your child. I don't need you to take care of me./

“You took care of me your whole life. I know you don't remember, but you can look it up if you don't believe me. You did everything for me, when I couldn't help you back. Now I can. Please let me help.”

The asset pet Jafar for a while before answering. /I'll take it under advisement./

Then he went to bed. He managed to curl up with only his cat and one knife, and actually used a blanket. Maybe there was a hope for a successful mission yet.

xxx

Steve crawled into Sam's bed so late it was practically early. Steve tried not to wake him, but Sam was a soldier too and woke as soon as the door clicked open.

“I need to get up?”

“No, it's nothing, go back to sleep.”

“K,” Sam rolled over and gave it his best effort.

It took Steve a long time to come to bed, though Sam didn't really know what he was doing. Rustling around. Fabric. Getting undressed? He was taking a long damn time.

When Steve did finally get into bed, naked like he usually slept now, he couldn't seem to get comfortable. He fidgeted. Steve never fidgeted. He usually spooned up against Sam and passed right out.

“What's bothering you?”

Steve flinched. “Didn't know you were still awake.”

“Like I could sleep with that racket you're making. C'mon Steve. What's wrong?”

Steve pulled Sam in close. He was trembling. “I don't know if I should tell you. But that's stupid because Bucky knows we're together. He probably expects me to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“He's been selling himself. That's where he goes at night. That's where he gets his money.”

Sam had a lot of views on sex work and body choice, but here was not the time or the place. “That bothers you?”

“He said he hated it. He spent more than an hour in the shower and his skin was red raw when he got out.”

“You told him its his choice right? He doesn't have to if he doesn't want to?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“There's gotta be more to it than that if you're that worked up.”

“Bucky and I used to bicker a lot. About pretty much everything actually. But we only really had fights about one thing. He used to – it was the great depression. Practically _everyone_ used to work the streets. At least half the guys in our tenement did it. But every time Bucky went out - it was always because of me. I needed meds, or I lost my job _again_ , or I needed art supplies for class that were just too much.I hated it, and we had nasty, horrible fights about it. I just. If he's been doing it all this time, maybe - “

“It's not your fault Steve. I bet he told you that too.”

“He said it was the only thing he knew, besides stealing and murder.”

“And that in and of itself is damn depressing. Don't go making it worse. Even if he was acting on some kind of memories, it And we'll help him find something new.”

“Something he likes.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks Sam. He already basically said all that, I just.”

“Have a really thick skull?”

Steve smiled a little little. “Something like that. Think you can go back to sleep?”

“If it wasn't Sunday I'd already be up. But yeah, I could probably get a little more sleep.”

“'M just gonna hold you if that's okay.”

“You hold me as much as you want man.”

So Steve did.

xxx

The asset – Jem – Bucky – Jem – Bucky – the asset – Bucky – James Buchanan Barnes – Jem – asset – gift to mankind – 03255 - 

Jem.

Jem was bored.

It-he-it-he- Pronouns were hard. Jem found that Jem didn't know how to refer to itself. Himself. Themself. There were choices, apparently. Steve and Sam had a variety of materials on being transgender, genderfluid, non-binary, and so may other things. Things Jem hadn't ever heard about, on any of its-his-her-their-missions. Couldn't remember any of their-his-its-her handlers having anything or describing themselves anything like that. Not that the asset _would_ have been taught anything that involved choices, or thinking for itself. But Jem did have thoughts.

And Jem thought -

They.

Not he, not she. Not it, not asset, not thing. They. Them. Plural. Or singular, unknown, neither. Not him or her, both. Neither. Jem was human, not a man or a woman or a weapon.

Jem was a person.

And that – was an exhausting revelation for for only a week of thought.

xxx

Sam was working in his garden. Jem had already done their morning routine, eaten, played with Jafar, cleaned their weapons, and exercised. So Jem followed Sam outside, instead.

“Hey, Bucky, what are you doing?”

/Watch./ Jem spelled it out, because Sam was still learning ASL, and Steve wasn't there to help.

“Watching me garden? Suit yourself.”

And then Sam turned around and continued to work, as if Jem wasn't a deadly assassin. Who was wearing a v-neck baby pink long sleeved tee, but still. Deadly assassin.

Jem didn't mind Sam and Steve calling them Bucky. It made Steve very happy, and Sam was happy when Steve was happy. And Steve would follow Jem's lead; if Jem introduced themselves as Jem, Steve would go along. But Bucky was a private name. Just for Steve and Sam, and Jem liked that.

Sam talked while he worked. He told Jem everything he was doing, what tools he was using and what plants he was working on, and why he was doing it. He explained that he used organic fertilizers and pest control. He planted some plants next to other plants to keep the whole garden healthy. He showed Jem the rows of little seedlings and succulents in pots, waiting until they were old enough to go in the ground or in bigger pots. He let Jem inspect the hedges he'd been growing around the property for privacy, which Jem approved of. It really helped cut down sight lines from the ground, without making them feel like they were fenced in.

Sam worked all day on his garden. He let Jem pull weeds, carefully showing them which plants weren't supposed to be there, and which to leave alone. When Sam was finally done, Jem helped pick up all the debris and put it in the green recycling bin for compost. Jem pushed up their sleeves and pushed down the green matter, snapping branches and compacting debris until it was a nice solid pack of stuff about half way down the container. Sam beamed at them.

Jem felt – good. They _liked_ gardening. That was too much to spell out so they scribbled it down on the small notepad they kept in their back pocket. /That was good. I liked gardening. Can we do it again some time?/

“Yeah Bucky. Of course we can try to do gardening at least once a week, and I water everything a couple times a week. We can work on it together.”

Jem nodded.

“Awesome. Hey, you wanna come help made dinner? I can show you.”

Another quick scribble. /I am very good at cooking if I have a recipe./

“That's really good! If you want, I can show you something about making food without one, if you want?”

Jem considered. /Yes./ They signed again.

“/Great,/” Sam said, and signed.

/We can practice your signing too./ They wrote.

Sam laughed. “I do need practice. Lemme clean up a bit and we'll make some food.”

xxx

Jem watched Sam and Steve kiss, something warm curling in their stomach. Jem didn't think that the two of them knew that they were there, curled up underneath the kitchen table with Jafar, where it was quiet, dark, and they felt safe. 

Steve had Sam pressed up against the wall, his hands up under Sam's shirt, a leg between Sam's legs, kissing him deeply. There was tongue. Sam had a hand on Steve's back and another tucked into Steve's jeans near his ass. They both seemed to be enjoying themselves thoroughly.

It was nothing like the work Jem used to do to support themselves. There was no kissing in Jem's work, for one – no love or pleasure on Jem's part. Just lust and a lot of thrusting. It was a means to an end, or punishment, but no better or worse than any other. The asset hadn't had any opinion on sex. Bucky had supposedly been quite the ladies' man, and had probably enjoyed sex, though he'd also sold himself and Jem didn't know whether he'd enjoyed that or not. Jem didn't know if he'd loved, as Steve loved, but Jem thought he had. There were news reels and pictures and Steve's drawings, and they all showed love. Bucky had let Steve in close to him when he didn't let anyone else in. There was a stiffness, an unease, a readied action, the anticipation of violence in Bucky's eyes in any image he hadn't been standing next to Steve. Jem though they could see the beginnings of the asset there; the foundation of what the Winter Soldier had been built on.

But there was also love. It might have been platonic love, or familial love, or romantic love, or a combination of all three. Sam's books had been very enlightening.

But this was lust. Jem knew that Steve loved Sam, but this was special; different. Jem – wanted it. They wanted to be apart of what was happening. Maybe Steve would let them kiss Sam, or put their hand down Steve's pants. It was just a vague desire; they knew the mechanics but seeking pleasure was an entirely different experience.

Steve sunk down to his knees and opened Sam's pants, and Jem realized that Sam and Steve probably thought they were alone. Jem hoisted Jafar off their lap, which made Jafar yowl and Steve start. Jafar stalked out into the middle of the room and yowled again, and Steve laughed.

“Damn cat. Let's go to bed Sam.”

“After you Cap,” Sam said, and slapped Steve on the ass.

Jem waited until they heard loud moans coming from Sam and Steve's room before they picked up their cat and went to bed.

xxx

The next door neighbor needed her lawn cut and her shrubs trimmed, and Sam let Jem do it. Then her friend needed a bunch of plants re-potted, and a lot of others put into the ground. Then the old vet down the street needed his trees cut back. And before they knew it, Jem became a relatively successful small business owner. They communicated via the small notebook they carried in their back pocket, or got by with a lot of pantomiming. Sometimes it was difficult to explain that they were mute, not deaf, so people could in fact talk to them or call their call number to make appointments, but they dealt with it.

Probably the most constantly irritating thing was the inability to wear anything other than a long sleeved shirt. Jem came home one day from work, soaked in sweat and uncomfortably overheated, stripped of their shirt, undershirt, pants, books, socks and putting an ice pack on the back of their neck.

“Bucky, please tell me you aren't working out in 102 degree weather in a long sleeved shirt.” Jem deliberately didn't sign anything. They were too tired anyways.

“Jesus Bucky. You know you can work in a tank top.”

Jem glared, and made exasperated motions at their metal arm.

“I went over all the footage myself. Nat has talked to all the agencies, Tony combed through all the leaked files. The only people who know you have a metal arm are HYDRA, and frankly, they've got other problems right now. If they knew you were here, they'd have done something already.”

That earned Steve another glare. /You couldn't have mentioned this sooner?/

“Sorry. I wasn't thinking.”

/As usual./

But Steve helped them into a nice, cool bath to cool off, and stayed in the bathroom with them so they wouldn't have flashbacks. And he helped dry off Jafar, who jumped into the bath and tried to swim on three legs. Then he helped Jem clean out all the sweat, dirt and grit out of their arm which was normally a tedious, time consuming process. With Steve's help, they also tracked down and soldered the wire that had been giving them a low grade shocking pain for weeks. It was a good day. Jem almost kissed Steve but never quite got the nerve to do so.

Jem started working with only an undershirt and old jeans on. Steve had helped buff the star off their shoulder, though of course the dull metal drew stares on all its own. Most people seemed to find it attractive, which was just strange. They'd hurt so many people with that arm. It wasn't sexy.

Except Steve seemed to think it was. Jem caught them looking, because they had the bad habit of stripping off their work clothes as soon as they came inside, going for a cool bath. More than once Jem had caught Steve staring, and Sam too. On one notable occasion Jem had walked in on both of them necking on the couch and had just stood there watching while Jem undressed.

“Um...Bucky?” Steve said, after Jem was down to just their underwear. (The underwear in question was purple Calvin Klein boyfriend cut, specifically meant for humans with dicks, and it was one of Jem's favorite pieces of clothing.) 

/Hm? Oh./ Jem realized they were making Steve uncomfortable. Or at least embarrassed. But Steve was staring at their crotch, too. Maybe he liked Jem's underwear. Maybe Jem should ask. Maybe Jem should just leave. They'd never seen Sam glare like that before.

xxx

Steve had been floored at Bucky's behavior recently. He was glad Bucky seemed to be growing into himself, discovering his identity, but he would just take his clothes off wherever, regardless of who was there. He had absolutely _no_ concept of body modesty which made sense in a horrible way – no one cared if your gun had a shirt on, after all. And since the house was a safe zone, that probably meant it was a safe space to get naked in.

Steve could understand that, in a detached sort of way. But yesterday Bucky had stripped down to what were definitely women's underwear (Steve didn't realize women's underwear _did_ that,) and watched him make out with Sam. Steve had so many feelings about that. Confusing feelings.

First of all, he'd never expected to be into exhibitionism, but having Bucky watch him and Sam – it had given him a surprising shiver of arousal. And then seeing Bucky – who'd always been a good looking guy - in what was definitely _women's_ underwear, was more erotic than Steve had been expecting. Steve had always had a bit of a thing for Bucky but nothing had never happened. He thought he'd gotten over it. He'd told Sam he didn't want Bucky instead of him, which was true. But apparently that didn't mean he wasn't attracted to Bucky, because was he ever attracted to Bucky.

Then as if all that wasn't enough, Steve kept thinking about those panties, and how awkward it would be if Bucky asked where he got them, because he really, really wanted some. How would they look on him? As good as they'd looked on Bucky? How would they fuel against his skin? What if he shaved until he was completely smooth and pulled on underwear that was silky and - 

The feelings were definitely confusing.

When Steve got up to make breakfast, Bucky was waiting at the breakfast table, coffee in hand, with two books on the table in front of him. Steve knew Bucky had read all of Sam's books on gender – Steve had read a few, but Sam had so _many_. He was shocked to see the ones Bucky had picked out were 'More Than Two! A Practical Guide to Ethical Polyamory,' and 'Nina Here Nor There: My Journey Beyond Gender.'

“Hey Buck. You're up early.”

/Didn't want to miss you./

“I'm just making breakfast. You want some?”

Bucky nodded. He still kept to a strict diet, but Steve didn't argue with it. Bucky was the healthiest Steve had ever seen him; physically, and his mental state was improving every day. So while Steve longed for the day when Bucky would just eat what he wanted, he wasn't going to argue with what was working.

“You waiting to talk to me?” Steve could when he set their breakfast door on the table and went for the coffee maker. Sam was making sounds in the other room; he'd be out soon.

/You and Sam./

Well, that might explain the polyamory book. Steve didn't know what to the think about that, so he made Sam some coffee. Sam came out of their room yawning, wearing one of Steve's shirts and pair of boxers. He took one look at the books and Bucky and said, “I need at _least_ two cups of coffee before we talk about this.”

Then he shot Steve a glare, like this was his fault. He hadn't done anything! Well. Besides watch Bucky's underwear the day before. But really – Bucky had been _right there_. He hadn't _done_ anything.

An awkward silence descended at the table. Bucky was sitting with his arms crossed, back straight, the two books out in front of him like an ultimatum. Steve was nervous, and picked at his breakfast. He wasn't hungry all of a sudden. 

Sam took his time drinking his coffee, not looking at either Bucky or Steve. He was instead looking out the window. He looked almost weary, and Steve felt another pang of guilt. Sam had had to deal with a lot, and just because he was a therapist professionally didn't mean that he could just deal with _everything_. Just because Sam was transgender didn't mean he would be able to deal with Steve's whatever it was, or Bucky's apparent wish for a polyamorous relationship.

When Sam finished his coffee he sighed, and pulled the two books in front of Bucky over to himself.

“Okay Bucky, what are you trying to tell us with these? I don't want to misunderstand you.”

/The gender book is me. The other is us. What I want./

“Okay, let's talk about the gender stuff. Are there certain pronouns you'd like us to use?”

/Non-binary, 'they.' Not he, not she, they. I – I feel human again, but not like anything. Just a person. Sorry./ Bucky directed that to Steve.

“Nothing to be sorry about Buck.” Steve assured.

/Bucky was male./

“I'm not expecting you to be him. You'll have changed.”

“It's actually really normal to feel that way, as a non-binary person. Everyone's transgender journey is different.”

/So...that's good?/

“Yeah, Bucky, that's really good!”

There was another awkward silence then, until Bucky poked the book on polyamory.

“Yeah, we should talk about that.”

Bucky gestured to the book, then to the three of them. Sam sighed. “I know you and Cap used to have some chemistry-”

/We weren't together./ Bucky said firmly shooting Steve a look for a confirmation.

“No, we sort of danced around it a bit, but we weren't together. Nothing even really happened.”

/Well I want it to./

“Do you just want to because you don't want to break Cap and I up? Because I already told him I'd step aside-”

“And I already told you I'm not gonna do that.”

Bucky looked frustrated. /I don't want Sam to go away. I _like_ Sam. I like it here in Sam's house, and Sam teaching me gardening. And I like it when you two are together. It looks – I want that./

“You wanna start a poly relationship, just like that.” Sam looked over at Steve, like Steve was going to stop this somehow.

Steve knew he looked eager, but he couldn't help it. Bucky and Sam are the best things that have ever happen to him, and if he can have both? He never even considered he might be so lucky. 

Sam took one look at his face, and sighed. “Of course you do.”

Bucky signed slowly, almost nervously. /Is that a no?/

Steve translated, and knew he was making puppy eyes. Sam sighed.

“That's a yes. But _you're_ gonna have to be the one to explain this to my momma.” Sam said, like that was a deal breaker.

Steve though it was going to be more difficult to explain how Bucky was alive then that they were in a committed three way relationship, but agreed that Sam shouldn't have to break the news.

“Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments give me life!!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me life!!


End file.
